I bought a $1 soda

and a pack of playing cards

so I can play speed with Death tonight.

We’ll share the soda.

I’ll pour some into my hands,

offering him the can.

He’ll watch as I try to drink from my palms,

but it slips through the cracks of my fingers,

staining the white dress I also bought for $1.

When it’s gone,

Death will ask if I’m still thirsty.

I’ll tell him no,

that I’ve had enough.

We’ll sit on the roof of that building

my brother climbed when he was seventeen.

I’ll mention that I’m almost seventeen too—

but not really,

because I just turned sixteen,

and I am very afraid of growing up.

Death says there’s a simple solution for that.

I don’t ask what it is.

Instead, I ask if my brother still gets birthday parties.

Death tells me I’d have to ask God.

I say that’s fine.

I don’t want to know.

He tells me over 150,000 people die each day

and asks me to calculate how many that is in a year.

I start counting—

the alcoholics, the dreamers, the almost-pilots,

the escapers, the almost-soldiers.

But I lose track

and end up calculating how many flowers

bees dissect in a year,

and whether they ask permission

before sinking into their flesh.

My legs go numb.

My heart grows tired.

The soda seeps into my dress,

sticky against my skin.

But I know my brother is doing fine,

wherever he is.

Because he is brave.

Because, like a firefly,

he carries light wherever he goes